She struggles to stand, wobbles, still too dizzy. I slide my arms beneath her knees and back, cross the bedroom in a few strides, and descend the steps as quietly as possible, Moose at my heels, and try not to feel the weight of Sylvie’s head against my chest, the side swell of her breast beneath my fingers. I walk down the hall, carry her into her room then shut the bedroom door with a foot and slide her onto the bed. Sylvie hangs her head between shaking knees. “You okay?” Tears patter onto the wood floor like raindrops. Moose creeps onto the bed, more gently than seems possible given his size, lies down beside her. Her fingers burrow into his fur.

Gently I ask, “Sylvie? What happened up there?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

I don’t believe you. “Then why are you crying?”

“It’s just . . . a lot. I assumed Mom would slam the door in my face. We’d head back to Portland.”

I settle beside her. “But she let us in.”

“I hoped—”

“What? That they’d forgiven you?”

“Maybe.” She sits up, face wet. “But they haven’t . . . and then dinner. I expected her to be mean, but he was, too.” Tears drip off her chin. “They didn’t say a word . . . but that letter is real.”

“Yeah, it is. Did you expect your father to tell the truth after he read it?”

“Maybe.”

“What reason do your parents have to lie?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“I can think of two possibilities,” I offer.

“Yeah?”

“One is that maybe the truth would get them in trouble.”

“Like what? They had someone steal me from a mall? Raised me under the pretense that I was an adopted foster child while some family in Indiana still searches for an abducted kid?” She shakes her head. “They don’t have it in them to commit a crime like that.”

“People desperate for a child have done worse.”

Sylvie snags a Kleenex from the bedside table, noisily blows her nose. “If I was kidnapped, there would be no records at all in the foster system. What’s the other possibility?”

“That they still love and want to protect you.”

She wipes her wet cheeks. “Lucas called before we arrived. My dad gave me his phone when we were on the porch.”

I’m surprised at my level of disappointment. Was I starting to trust her? “You called him.”

“No.”

She winds a lock of hair around her fingers, tight enough that it cuts off the blood supply. Do I believe her? “Why not?”

Her chin quivers. “I’m not sure.”

Sylvie rests her head on my shoulder. The scent of vanilla rises from her hair. The desire to protect her and more overwhelms. I hesitate then put an arm around her, imagine my fingers tracing the curve of her neck . . . Stop. I wrote an article a few years ago about male and female scents. How there are certain smells that attract men. That’s all this is.